Epilogue
by eliska
Summary: Some endings don't end at all. Oneshot. Stendy. Contains implied necrophilia. Happy Valentine's Day!


This one rapes the thesaurus in so many ways it's incredible. Just a warning, y'know. I guess this would be a darker version of "Peace" in _The Heart of Everything_. Yupp.

Happy Valentine's Day... or not, depending how you interpret this.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

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**Epilogue** (n) - a short passage added at the end of a literary work.

See _end._

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He traced his fingertips along her ceramic face, feeling the coldness that radiated from her skin. She was so

(dead)

beautiful, he thought. As clichéd as it was, the thought held true. Her looks were quite indescribable in the incandescent moonlight, and he relished her body's curves and billows. All of this, he owned all and every single cell of this, of her—timeless, immaculate and pure.

He never touched her before when she was living, because to do that would be sacrilegious, a sin. It went against the very nature of being, as he thought, even though his friends had been both wary and disapproving of his thoughts. They had warned him of the consequences, but he hadn't ever listened. She was there, present in all his thoughts, his dreams; haunted him throughout the ages ever since he was eight.

He was head-over-heels, totally and irretrievably in love with Wendy Testaburger… whatever that meant. She'd told him he was a romantic at heart, when she was

(alive)

at a party one time. It was, he mused, a predictable thing to say, but he knew—subconsciously? Because he never really _knew_, at the exact moment when he did what he did—that it wasn't true. Not entirely, that was. During Valentine's Day he would give her flowers, a little shyly, and she'd laughed gently; the musical sound of her voice never ceased to amaze him. But it was something deeper than that, deeper than the tangible softness of her skin and her sparkling eyes, deeper even than her high intellect and strict morality.

_We were meant to __**be**__._ He didn't just believe it, he knew it was true. It was truer than the sky was blue, an irrefutable law of the universe.

"But she isn't good enough for you!"

It infuriated him to no end to hear someone say that. He loved her, and that was that; all is fair in love and war. Cupid is blind and does not see where his arrows fall; neither do the lovers care when they are struck, nor who they fall in love with. All that mattered was the friction between them, the sparks that flew with the emotional and physical richness of their love.

"And what if _you're_ not good enough for her?"

_No. Never. It is an impossibility, that one of us would not suit the other._

And if that were true—if something so ridiculous must exist—he had a perfect solution to it, that which would lay in front of him for the time being.

Even in his human warmth there was cold, cold from the skin of the deceased and from the moonlight, a wintry night chill that brought forth old memories and old feelings—things that, to him, were just adding onto the Now. It was odd how simply staring at her on the blood-splattered ground could generate so many different emotions, but he rationalized that it was all because of what she _was_. They called her a control freak, a bitch; he called her his angel, his muse.

Strange, really, how she still was—her bizarrely angled limbs combined with the scarlet liquid oozing down her thighs filled his vision, and he thought of the ways to present this, in poetry and tales and figments.

Years had passed since then, but his poetic touch that began with the Gothic phase during his youth had persisted.

And maybe… maybe that was it. Maybe his taste for the aesthetic had fueled this, along with the love he had harbored for so long. In life he dared not touch her, nor even speak to her in manners as he was presenting now. It was all too surreal to him then, during those times when even a small kiss would send him reeling and vomiting. He could have her to himself now, love her with all his heart and watch over her every day, every night—writing the poetry for her that would never be sent when she was alive, without fail, without remorse.

He kissed her, gently, while telling her the story of how their love came to be. A soft caress, a smile, and again he was lost in the everlasting waves of affection of his mind. Presently the sun would rise again, he knew, and take away the magic of the night and the beauty of her death.

The clock ticks, but he would still be there in the morning.

_For her._

Fin.


End file.
